Humming along

In April I took this dispiriting photo.

The purple tulips which had come back nicely the last two (or possibly three) years, this spring managed to produce nothing but limp leaves. (And, oh, dear, that window really needs washing.)

Time, methought, to change things up a bit.

I dug out all the tulip bulbs (to be dried out and transferred in the autumn to the garden) and replaced them in this and the kitchen window boxes with bee-friendly lavender, which will not need to be replaced every year. The hanging baskets would get flowers at some point.

When Catherine was here earlier this week, I spotted a hummingbird when we were sitting outside with our morning coffees and fags. Oh, right, I thought. I was going to get a hummingbird feeder. No time like the present.

On our way down to Drumbeg, I stop at Wheelbarrow. Turns out they don’t sell hummingbird feeders, but that’s okay. Good chance to pick up a couple of Osteospermum (“Tradewinds Deep Purple”) and some lobelia (white and blue) for the hanging baskets.

After a lovely walk (and selfie) at Drumbeg, we drive back via Wild Rose, the other nursery. I know they have hummingbird feeders, because I’ve seen them there.

I am of course immediately drawn to the blue glass feeder. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s cobalt blue glass. (Hello? Have you met me?) Catherine immediately dismisses it, pointing out there is a reason most feeders are red: hummingbirds are attracted to the colour red.

And, yes, I know this is true.

A few years ago a hummingbird got in the house. First I heard its wings humming, then I heard it whacking itself against the skylight in an attempt to escape. The back door, through which it had flown, was wide open, but the bird didn’t seem to be aware of this. I opened all the windows wide to increase the number of potential exits, but the bird still mistakenly thought the skylights were the best escape route. Eventually I had to go to the village to do some shopping, so took a chance and left the back door wide open when I did. Looked around when I returned and thought the bird had figured out how to leave, but I was wrong. Humming wings started up again, along with skylight whacking. Gah! How was I ever going to get the poor thing out of the house? Rang Pat on the off chance that he would have a helpful suggestion. He didn’t, but his visiting friend Margaret did: hang an article of red clothing by the open door. Fantastic suggestion, except I don’t own an article of red clothing. Would anything red do? Yes, said Margaret. Right, I thought, what do I own that’s red? The washing bucket! Of course! Dug it out from under the sink and placed it by the open door. Five minutes later the hummingbird flew out of the house.

So, okay, yeah, I get it. As much as I may want a cobalt blue hummingbird feeder, it ain’t gonna draw a crowd.

There is also a red glass version of the same feeder, but it turns out the bottom does not unscrew, so the feeder cannot be properly cleaned. “It must,” claims the shop manager. He tries. It doesn’t. Nor do the bottoms of my third and fourth choice. (Is the manager, I wonder, going to point these design faults out to future buyers?) So we try a fifth. Eureka! It unscrews for proper cleaning.

As we pay for the feeder (and some basil it will soon be safe to plant outside), Catherine tells me to use cane sugar for the nectar, never beet. The shop manager says he thinks either is fine. Not so, says Catherine, and of course she is right.

Back at the house, I can’t wait to get going. Made-in-China feeder is given a proper wash and rinse. The packet of made-in-China "instant nectar" is put to one side. (The mind boggles.) Catherine tells me I should boil a cup of cane sugar in four cups of water. I look at the feeder. There’s no way it will hold four cups of nectar. Catherine looks at me and says nothing. I boil half a cup of sugar in two cups of water. When it’s taking too long to cool, I stick it in the fridge. We have lunch. I check the nectar. Perfect temperature. Pour it into the holder. It fills less than half of it. I look at Catherine. She smiles. Of course she is right. Lesson learnt.

A cup hook, length of string and a couple of S hooks are assembled and the feeder is attached.

Whilst waiting for the hummingbirds to arrive, I plant the flowers in the hanging baskets.

The next morning, after Catherine leaves, I get around to washing the back windows. The nectar appears to be going down, but I’ve yet to see a hummingbird.

By the next day the word’s apparently gone round the ’hood. 

One visitor conveniently turns up as I take this photo to illustrate the improvements since that first April photo. Can’t see her?

Try this photo.

I am thrilled to report things are humming along nicely.

Coming up roses, part 2

As reported last month, the roses are coming back nicely. Most of the bushes have buds on them.

  

Some are almost ready to burst into flower. Hurrah!

I want to give them as much encouragement as possible, which means surrounding them (and the lilac, which has now had its first dose of Dave’s magic “make flowers” cocktail) with compost and/or sea soil. What I don’t want is the compost and/or sea soil being sprayed all over the rest of the slanting bed when I water them.

I know! I’ll make rock circles around them to keep the good stuff  where it needs to be.

I survey my handiwork. It’s okay and it should do the job, but I’m just not quite sure. I go inside, make myself a cuppa and come back for another look. Nope. Just looks like a job half done. And it’s not as if I have any shortage of rocks, is it?

Much better. Settle myself on the swing with Stella to admire my rocky rose bed. Oh, that smug feeling of a job well (rather than half) done.

Elsewhere in the garden: Came back into the house Monday morning after watering the garden to report thrilling news to my visiting friend Catherine: the regular peas are sprouting! She shares my excitement. It is after all what we gardeners (both proper and useless like me) live for, is it not?

This morning there is further excitement. Despite the fact that one of the cats (my money’s on Roxie) keeps trying to use the veggie bed as a litter box, a row of beet leaves has appeared! No sign yet of carrots, lettuce, spinach, rocket or squash, but it’s still early days, isn’t it? (Or isn’t it?)

Fingers crossed.

Rhodo Dave puts me straight

Across the road at Pat’s, in addition to his two heavily lilac-laden trees, his heavenly-scented rhododendron is in full bloom. In fact, rhododendrons are flowering all over the island – except in my back yard. I’m putting this down to the lack of sun back there. After all, the California lilacs in the back flower much later than the one in the garden, so why not?

This looks like it's going to flower, doesn’t it? (Doesn’t it? she repeats plaintively.)

I thought so, but then I realised these are simply new leaves, not flowers. Bollocks.

Nearing the end of rehearsals for Will Shakespeare The Panto, which I directed in 2014, BJ, one of the longstanding panto cast members, looked at me and asked, “What about the children?” To which I replied: “What about them? I’m letting them in, am I not? What more do they want?” BJ pointed out that there was no point in the script assigned to giving sweets to the rug rats. Apparently simply allowing them to attend wasn’t enough. They needed sweets. “Fine,” I said, “you can hand out sweets during the Act One finale*.” Sheesh. Anyone would think that pantos were children’s entertainment. (To avoid a similar debate the following year, I deliberately included handing out sweets in the script. Personally, I still think it’s bloody pandering.)

* Act One finale: A rousing version of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

I was reminded of this conversation yesterday when I went to the rehearsal for A Visit From Miss Prothero. 

Dave, our director, and his wife Jan have dozens (nay, scores) of beautifully flowering rhododendrons scattered around their property. I mention my two rhododendrons showing no sign of wanting to flower, proffering my theory that they’ve been slowed down by lack of sun. Dave looks at me and asks, “What are you feeding them?” I stare back at him blankly. Feeding them? What is he talking about? No one told me rhododendrons had to be provided with slap up meals. “Erm,” I mutter. “I water them.” Surely that’s enough? Au contraire. Apparently, in addition to sun and water, they need food. I see.

Fortunately for me, Rhodo Dave has lots of rhododendron food. He sends me home after rehearsal with a supply.

And he tells me I might want to give my only-ever-flowered-once lilac some of the same food – if I would like it to ever flower again. Well, erm, yes, I would rather like that. (I am, of course, immediately suspicious about the year the lilac did actually flower. Krys was here alone with it for three weeks while I was in England. Had she been cooking four-course meals for the lilac? It begins to seem highly likely. How sneaky was that? And this, of course, is much more comforting than my previous theory that the lilac liked her, but doesn’t like me.)

So, this morning both rhododendrons and both lilacs have been fed. Dave, bless him, realising how completely hapless a gardener I am, promises to remind me when the next feeding is required.  

Now that I have learnt the error of my ways, I confidently predict that this time next year my rhododendrons and lilacs will look just like Pat’s.

  

Just kidding. (I can dream, can’t I?)

Back in the back forty

Time today for a bit more housekeeping. In the house, you ask? No. Never mind the bloody house. No, back in the “back forty” (ha, ha).

I really should have taken a photo a month ago when the daffs were in full bloom all over the back. (One flowering thing bloody Bambo won’t eat.) It looked fabulous. Now it’s time to trim them all back.

One thing, now that I’m looking properly, is growing (and growing) increasingly clear: the weeds didn’t get (or perhaps did not read) the memo. This is a rock garden, featuring heather and lavender. No other vegetation need apply.

Well, except ferns. We like ferns. Wherever they wish to pop up they are very welcome.

As for the rest, they’ve got to go. So I start weeding.

What, I hear you ask, does the broom have to do with anything? It is actually playing quite an important role. It is allowing me to sweep away the bloody pine needles (which, moistened over winter and adhering together like mud, are encouraging weeds to spring up apparently out of nowhere).

Two hours later, much better. There’s still a considerable amount to do back here, but I think it’s time to kick Stella off the zero gravity chair, make a cup of tea and read the paper.

For now, job done.